


Raised By Wolves

by Anonymous, Puremornings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Girl!Stiles, Pregnant!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:13:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/pseuds/Anonymous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puremornings/pseuds/Puremornings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill: Derek/girl!Stiles<br/>Derek and Stiles have a very casual relationship where something happens leaving Stiles under the impression that Derek just wants her for sex. They can be a little bit older when Stiles becomes pregnant, and angsts like hell because she thinks Derek will leave her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The first chapter is by an anon, the second is by me since it deeply pained me to see this story unfinished
> 
> 2) Sorry this was deleted and is only being reposted now, there was an accident where I abandoned this work so I couldn't make any edits and needed to repost so I could have access again, all better now, enjoy!
> 
> 3) This is supposed to be post season 1 but with some tweaking of ages with everyone starting out as juniors in high school instead of sophomores

So it's not like she was ever cut out for the epic-romance-that-is-Scott-and-Allison, but she had spent the better part of sophomore year hoping for someone easy-going and fun.  Who didn't nag at her to grow out her hair or mind double-dating with a couple straight out of Nicholas Sparks' latest. Who didn't mind that she drove and laughed at her jokes and went with her to all the formals and came over to her house for Saturday dinners because she couldn't leave her dad alone in their empty house with all his memories.

What she'd gotten instead was Derek Hale.

Derek Hale who, while not nagging at her to grow her hair and _definitely_ not complaining when she was driving (though this was usually because he was passed out or on the verge of passing out), never comes over for Saturday dinner and claims he would sooner gouge out his eyes than sit through the sapfest of Scott and Allison on a date. Stiles couldn't even _imagine_ Derek at any of the school formals: if the chaperones didn't spontaneously combust at the sight of Beacon Hills' most notorious not-murderer then Derek would ruin the evening by slamming someone's head (probably hers) against the gym wall.

In fact, she's really not dating Derek. It's more like she got up one day, went over to his creepy burned-out husk of a house, and accidentally fell on his cock. And somehow kept falling on it. And choking on it. She isn't particular. She blames that same stupid danger-seeking impulse in her that makes her listen to her dad's police scanner, has her go up against the big-bad of the week, made her try out for and stay on the boy's lacrosse team. She also blames Derek's stupid faux-hawk.

His hair is softer than it looks, even with the layers of gel he uses to keep it back and up. She runs her fingers through it, just because she can. Derek's face-down on her bed, sleeping the sleep of the well-fucked. Her dad's on night-duty, which means she can usually count on Derek to come over, do his laundry and make her look up something on her computer. Sometimes he screws her, sometimes he doesn't. She's tried to chart it out, decipher what's different the nights he stays. It's not anything he smells on _her_ , she's pretty sure. He doesn't seem to care if she's on the rag or not (nasty but kinda flattering), and it's not like he can't smell how wet she gets whenever he's near.

Tonight, he'd been just as hot for it as she was. It's almost the full moon, so he'd been rougher than normal, rutting into her with all that pent-up aggression, cock swelling almost as big as it does when the moon really is full and he's closest to a real wolf, knot and all. She tries to hide how much she loves those nights, when he comes with a groan that's almost-but-not-quite a howl and pumps load after load of come into her cunt. He always licks her out for the next week or so, afterwards, some kind of warped thank-you that only Derek would find necessary.

She doesn't know what he does on the nights he doesn't come to her bed, and she doesn't want to know. She only knows that he's here now, and she can watch his slow, even breaths until she falls asleep, her left hand still in his soft hair.

~~~~~

Lydia and Jackson are on the on-again cycle of their on-again-off-again relationship, which means they're playing footsie at the lunch table and Allison's attempting to get her "girl time" quota via Stiles. Stiles likes Allison, she really does, but if she has to listen to how soulful Scott's eyes are one more time she might have to pull a Derek and threaten to rip out a throat or two.

Today (mercifully) Allison's on her other favorite topic: finding Stiles a boyfriend.

"You know Matt," she saying.

Yeah, unfortunately Stiles knows Matt. "Allison," Stiles reminds. "I'm on the lacrosse team."

Allison at least has the grace to blush. "He says he's sorry for that."

Apparently, Matt's girlfriend dumped him last weekend at some party Stiles hadn't been at, and now he's looking for someone to go with him to the spring semi-formal. Which is in less than a week. Which means he's desperate enough to take the teammate he's referred to as "that dyke-bitch" since freshman year.

Still, her dad had looked so hopeful when he'd asked if she were going to the semi-formal and didn't quite hide his disappointment when she'd laughed and said no. She can put up with Matt for an evening.

Matt picks her up precisely at five-thirty to go to the group date dinner at that expensive French place Lydia likes. He gives her a white wrist corsage and manages to call her Stiles all the way to the restaurant.

Allison gives her a little thumbs-up sign when they get there and interrogates her in the restaurant's restroom.

"It's only been ten minutes," Stiles hisses, trying to avoid Lydia's blush brush because Lydia feels she's hasn't got enough make-up on.

"In ten minutes I knew Scott was the one," Allison says encouragingly.

At this, Lydia stops trying to grab at Stiles' face so they can share pained looks through the restroom mirror.

Matt is, of course, not Derek, but that's the point, isn't it? Seeing people who aren't Derek. She's going to be going to college at some point, and Derek won't be there, and she'll get a normal boyfriend that won't be Derek. Might as well start practicing.

Of course, because this is high school, someone sneaks a flask in despite the pat-down to get into the gym, and she gets a few good swallows in to mix with her Adderall so she chemically fakes the energy she doesn't really feel before bringing her Stiles-party to the dance floor.

She crashes, of course, like she always does, and finds herself crying in one of the empty, dark hallways and texting Derek.

 **theStiles:** u bussy?

 **Sourwolf:** yes.

 **theStiles:** Iwann see u.

 **Sourwolf:** Are you drunk?

 **theStiles:** y

 **theStiles:** n horny.

 **theStiles:** derek

 **theStiles:** u therre

 **theStiles:** ????

 **theStiles:** derek?

She smells him before she sees him: all wood smoke and damp earth.

"Mmm..." she says, getting unsteadily to her feet to bury her face in his collar.

The cute little white kitten heels Allison had convinced her to buy are really too much trouble, so she leans against him to slide them off.

"I'll drive you home," he says catching her wrist.

She lets herself be led out to the parking lot. In the dark, no one can see Derek's wearing his ratty jeans and jacket. They could be an ordinary couple, leaving the dance to go make-out in the bushes.

She tries the making out bit when they're both situated in Derek's car.

He pushes her away. "What's that smell?" he asks as he starts the ignition and peels out onto the empty road.

"Chanel No. 5," she tells him. "Dabbed it on my wrists and neck and behind my knees. Supposed to make me irresistible." She realizes how much she likes the word. "Irresistible," she says again.

"Oh Christ," says Derek.

She watches him shift gears. Sometimes she wonders how Scott didn't burn out the transmission that one time he drove Derek's car, what with how horrible Scott is at driving stick. Actually, Scott's just a horrible driver, period, even now that he has his license. "You're a really good driver," she informs Derek.

She doesn't have to see to know Derek is giving her that look. "Don't give me that look," she says. "You do this sexy clenched jaw thing when you drive. 'S hot." She fiddles with her wrist corsage. Thinks about hot-house roses and how ridiculous Derek would look going to a florist. "We've stopped," she says in wonder.

"We're at your house," Derek explains. Then, "Out."

"How rude," she says. She kisses that sexy clenched jaw. "You wanna come up?"

She's wearing a new lace bra and panties because Lydia always says what's the point of wearing a nice new dress if you're wearing your boring old underwear underneath. It's Lydia who bitched about the perfume, too. Speaking of which...

"Matt liked my perfume," she informs him as he's attempting to unzip her dress. She slides off the corsage and carefully lays it on her desk. It's the first one she's ever received. She's going to dry it like Allison does and keep it.

Then she stops thinking because Derek's succeeded in getting her dress off and if the way his canines momentarily distended are anything to go by, her bra and panties are a hit.

"Who the hell is Matt?" Derek asks, later, like he's remembering something important. Stiles sighs. The last thing she wants to talk about is Matt. She'd been enjoying the afterglow, not to mention Derek's mouth on her nipple, his warm hands spanning her rib cage, his hardening cock against her thigh.

"Ugh," she says, flinging an arm over her face. "My date," she says because it's obviously obvious. "What, you think Scott suddenly had the money to shell out for two corsages? His job does not pay that well, and I don't think I'd let him buy me one even if it did. Pity-corsages are too loser-ish, even for me."

"I didn't know you had a date," Derek says. He's raised his mouth off her breast, and Stiles whines her displeasure.

"Do we have to talk about this now? I'm quite enjoying the Stiles-will-never-have-a-date-free zone." She shifts a bit, spreading her thighs again, urging him back inside. It's always a sure-fire way to shut him up.

But he's pulling away. "I'd better go," he says. "Your dad will be home soon."

She watches him shuck on his jeans. "Oh c'mon, Derek," she says, "don't be like that. I'll be good. No more sharing of my tortured high school existence. Promise."

He makes a little noise that's something like a laugh as he pulls on his t-shirt. It _is_ Derek after all. It's not like he has a well-functioning sense of humor.

~~~~~

Matt gets back with his girlfriend the next week, but she gets her half of the pictures, anyway. It's a pretty dress, even if Lydia says yellow isn't anyone's color. Her dad is super-pleased about it, buying a little frame for the 5x7 and saying he's going to put it on his desk at work. She smiles and tries not to change the subject whenever he asks if she thinks Matt will ask her out again.

She makes sure not bring up her lack of dates to Derek again. Too personal for him, but then small talk about the weather is too personal for Derek. Stiles puts it down to the trauma of losing almost all of your family when you were fifteen and then six years later finding out your uncle was a homicidal maniac responsible for killing your sister. She can understand why he's less than enthused to hear about her own admittedly adolescent angst.

Besides, Derek's temper (always frayed at the best of the times) has permanently snapped. Tensions between him and the Argents are on the rise, and Allison won't say anything about it, though she _must_ know. Stiles would've known by now if Mr. Argent was _her_ dad. She doesn't really understand the Argents' problem. Derek's pack is small. There must be larger ones to go and harass.

Spring turns to summer and before she knows its Midsummer's Eve and there are these crazy witches in town (because _clearly_ Beacon Hills is a super-hot tourist destination for witches) and they want to do this crazy magic renewal ritual or they're going to curse blight upon the entire town. Derek, Scott, and Stiles -- and let's face it, it's mostly Stiles -- have to do some crazy-ass negotiating to make sure the blight doesn't happen. And of course, because it's her life, the witches take Stiles as a good-faith hostage.

The magic renewal ritual involves the witches and Stiles chugging something that tastes worse than wheatgrass (Stiles _so_ doesn't want to think about what's in it) and sitting in a semi-circle out in the woods and channeling the woods' mystical energies. Allison gets out of it because somehow being part of a legendary werewolf hunter family harshes the mellow of the renewal ceremony. Who knew?

"Did they hurt you?" Derek growls, the wolf much closer to the surface than it ought to be as it's a new moon. He holds her at arms' length, looking at her with narrowed eyes. She wonders how he thinks he'd see bruises through her clothes, but then this is Derek. Maybe he can.

"No, no," she assures. "They did just what they said." She can still taste the awful drink they gave her. She reaches in her pocket for some gum. "Can we go now?"

Derek takes her back to his house, to the camp bed he's been sleeping on for god-knows-how-long and he holds her and they lazily make-out for what seems like hours. She spends the next few weeks in bliss.

Bliss that ends with chronic heartburn, and _oh god_ what if the witches' brew has given her an ulcer? She emails Mary Beth -- and honestly, a witch named Mary Beth -- and asks, as non-panicky and politely as she can, just what the hell was in that drink and if it's currently eating the lining of her stomach.

Mary Beth writes back that it was "simple infusion of St. John's wort, designed cleanse the body and restore the spirit."

Google is much more informative: St. John's wort interferes with the pill.

Her health problems suddenly exponentially expand.

She mainlines any and all articles on St. John's wart, oral contraceptives, and ovulation. The phrase "may reduce the efficacy of oral contraceptives" is permanently burned into her retinas. Then, because she is on the verge of going crazy, she goes to Scott's for a Call of Duty marathon.

Even replaying the Battle of Stalingrad doesn't help.

If she and Scott hadn't declared a moratorium on any and all discussions involving their respective reproductive organs way back at the onset of puberty, this would definitely be the time to say, "So I might be knocked up with Hale spawn...thoughts?"

And Sweet Baby Jesus. _Derek_.

She chokes on a sour punch straw.

It's not like she hasn't thought about Derek. After all, it takes two to make a hypothetical maybe-baby and even if Derek's been making himself scarce these past few days, he's been making steady inroads on the new bottle of laundry detergent. But it's not like she's really _thought_ about what a baby will --

"Dude!" Scott says as he thumps her on the back.

If she's told Scott once, she's told him a thousand times _heimlich maneuver_ or nothing. So yeah, it figures that even if they _did_ talk about their reproductive systems, he'd be useless at knowing if she were just late this month or _late_.

Allison is similarly unhelpful. Well, she would be unhelpful, even if she weren't currently on some sort of dubious and suspicious "family vacation" involving her father and semi-assault weapons. Mr. Argent is a firm believer in "no sex until marriage" and in "married people sleep in separate beds, just like on _Leave It to Beaver_."

(Stiles is pretty sure the Beavers had sex anyway, what with the Beaver and Wally, but she concedes that after Beaver, June probably told Ward she'd castrate him before they took their chances with a third child.)

This means that Allison is not allowed on the sex gateway drug commonly known outside Mr. Argent's mind as the pill even though she regularly pleads for it on complexion rather than hot-monkey-sex-with-Scott grounds.

Mrs. Argent keeps the peace and keeps Allison supplied with condoms, but they don't work at certain times of the month. Or at least, Stiles assumes they don't, assuming that Scott is like Derek and yeah, _so_ not going there.

Danny is also out, for obvious reasons, such as a lack of functioning womb.

This leaves Lydia.

Lydia and Jackson are on the off portion of their relationship cycle which means instead of Lydia sunbathing in the relative privacy of Jackson's parents' pool, she is stuck at the local neighborhood one with all the screaming kids.

This means ear buds and movie-star shades.

(It also means Jackson is skulking about glaring extra hard at any twelve year old boy that dares look at Lydia's boobs. Since Lydia's boobs are mesmerizing and once caused Stiles' a three week sexual identity crisis in eight grade before she concluded that she really just wanted to _be_ Lydia, this means Jackson's eyes are permanently narrowed. Maybe, if Stiles is very lucky, they'll get stuck like that.)

Lydia doesn't give any real acknowledgement when Stiles sits down on the chaise next to her, but she grudgingly removes her ear buds within the next five minutes, so Stiles figures this is progress.

"Yes?" she finally says, in that pointed Lydia way of hers.

"Have you ever been, y'know?" Stiles says with a vague hand gesture that she hopes conveys "taken St. John's wort by mistake and been late but _not_ pregnant" but fears looks more she's shooing away a dog.

"No," Lydia says. She looks over at Jackson who is in the process of making threatening gestures at some rather terrified pre-teens. She smiles; it's not a particularly nice smile. Stiles is once again glad Lydia is on the side of truth and justice or at least is not actively plotting against Stiles as far as Stiles knows.

"So," Stiles tries again. "St. John's wort and birth control. Did you know that -- "

"St. John's wort causes an induction of ethinyl estradiol-norethindrone metabolism consistent with increased cytochrome P450 3A enzymes?" Lydia examines her nails. "Who _doesn't_ know that?"

~~~~~

Lydia convinces Stiles that OTC pregnancy tests are waste of time and money because Planned Parenthood will do a much better, much more thorough test for free.

Also, Planned Parenthood has more anonymity than buying from old Ms. Perkins' at the CVS.

Planned Parenthood is in Beacon Heights, Beacon Hills' arch-nemesis in all things sports' related. Except, oddly enough, lacrosse. Beacon Heights doesn't even have a _team_.

Beacon Heights also has a mall with a Sephora so after Stiles answers a series of increasingly personal question, pees in a cup, and learns that _yes_ she is indeed in her first trimester (congratulations!), Lydia takes her lip-gloss shopping.

"I always find it soothing," Lydia says.

Stiles has been told Adderall is untested on pregnant women and she should use it as little as possible if she's keeping the baby, so she's game to find a replacement.

Oh god. _Keeping_ the baby.

Lydia goes through lip-gloss after lip-gloss, dabbing the tester on the back of her hand then on the back of Stiles' hand. Then frowning and wiping the color off before she repeats the process. It _is_ soothing in its mindless repetitiveness, but Stiles is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of colors and brands.

They've reached Tarina Tarantino when Stiles manages to croak out, "What do I tell my dad?"

And then, of course, there's Derek.

Derek, who, like Allison, has managed to disappear from California. Of course, while Allison is probably on some secret Hunter compound in Utah, Derek's left for New York City.

New York City is apparently werewolf HQ, N.A., which is a little weird considering. Stiles has never been, so she doesn't like to judge, but besides Central Park, she doesn't think there's a lot of woods. Derek had told Scott that he was going to appeal something Mr. Argent had done or wanted to do; it was unclear in Scott's retelling. Apparently, the New York werewolves have some sort of alternative dispute resolution business going on.

Stiles has texted Derek a few times, asking for pictures of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. Derek has ignored her.

The responsible thing to do would be to call Derek and tell him he's her baby-daddy. And ask him what he wants her to do about it because even if he doesn't lo - _like_ her, the fetus (baby) is the only immediate family he has left.

So she sends him a picture of one of those cats with a piece of bread around its head and adds, "found ur Halloween costume 4 this yr."

Still no response.

And honestly, she _hates_ the responsible part of herself.

The phone picks up on the third ring (not that she's counting). There's a low bass thumping in the background and people, lots of people, like Derek's in a club or something. Not that she's ever been to one being underage and living in Beacon Hills with nary a club in sight.

And a girl's voice asks, low and amused, "Who the hell is Gemima?"

Mortification makes her eyes prick and she ends the call. She turns off her phone and takes the battery out and then hides both the battery and the phone in among her t-shirts for good measure.

Her dad's home for the evening, after all.

~~~~~

Stiles fishes around in the KFC Family Bucket for a drumstick.

She's pretty sure the fast food her dad picks up on his way home from work isn't what the nurse-practitioner means by "balanced diet." Stiles has got these _huge_ neonatal vitamins to force down and a stack of pamphlets with tiles like "Pregnancy, Nutrition, and You" hidden away in her bag. She wonders if she should start pushing her dad to get the coleslaw over the biscuits.

She spoons herself some mashed potatoes. Starches are good. She thinks.

Stiles realizes her dad is waiting for her to say something. "What?"

"So you and Lydia went to Beacon Heights," her dad says, clearly repeating himself.

"Uh-huh," Stiles says. "Lydia wanted lip-gloss." Which is true. It's just not why they went. Or at least, not why _Stiles_ went.

Stiles looks up from her plate to her dad. He's got that anxious expression on him that he gets when he's worried he's been a selfish father. That it's _his_ fault she's the way she is, that maybe he should have remarried, should have pushed Stiles into dresses and make-up a bit more, should have listened when the concerned women at church told him he should remember he had a daughter and not a son.

"I'm so proud of you," her dad says,

Stiles is distinctly _not_ hungry anymore.

"No, I mean it," her dad continues, clearly mistaking whatever-the-hell is on her face for embarrassment. "You've really come out of your shell this year, Stiles."

There's really nothing she can say to that, so she just shoves another mouthful of mashed potatoes into her mouth.

When she can escape back upstairs to her room, her hands do _not_ shake as she puts her phone back together and flips it on.

 _15 new messages_ the words flash across the screen and she gulps.

 **srslyscott:** ur phone is bag-dialing ppl again

 **srslyscott:** u called derek

 **srslyscott:** he's pissed

 **srslyscott:** thought he was gonna eat me thru the phone

 **srslyscott:** w/ his scary alpha teeth

 **srslyscott:** text him sry or hes gonna kill me

 **srslyscott:** will never see allison again

 **srslyscott:** u that selfish?

 **srslyscott:** stiles?

 **srslyscott:** ur phone is dead isn't it

 **srslyscott:** ?

 **srslyscott:** im txting a dead phone

 **srslyscott:** stiles plug in ur phone!

 **srslyscott:** i know ur having dinner w/ ur dad but srsly

 **srslyscott:** i want to live!

All from Scott.

She sends Scott a short _sorry my battery died_ text and then sends a _sorry my bag called you_ to Derek.

It's early enough, but she's exhausted, so she climbs into bed. Turns off her light.

Tries not to think about what (who) Derek's doing in New York.

The girl would be all sophisticated New York with bright red lipstick and shiny hair and she would knock back shots of tequila like water.

"You know a girl named Gemima?" she would ask, leaning in close so Derek could hear her and so she had an excuse to press her boobs up against him. Girls who sounded like her always had good boobs: Lydia-worthy boobs.

And Derek would give that smirk he gives and let the girl draw her own conclusions about why someone would name a kid after _Aunt Jemima_ but spell it with a "G" instead. And okay, so she _knows_ she's not named after Aunt Jemima, but it's always a little awkward explaining that (1) her parents did not have some sort of weird pancake fetish and (2) her parents were not dyslexic.

And between the smirk and that stubble, the girl would be a goner, and she'd forget all about some poor idiot named Gemima and ask Derek if he wanted to go home with her and --

Her phone vibrates.

 **srslyscott:** thx

~~~~~

She dreams Derek's in her room, toeing off his shoes in that shouldn't-be-cool-but-is way of his so he can join her in bed.

“You're in New York,” she reminds him.

He just noses at the pulse point in her neck and inhales with deep, even breaths because he's a massive creeper.

“And you managed to terrify Scott from across the country,” she continues. “Go you.”

She can feel him, half-hard against her hip, but he makes no move to do anything about it, and while normally she'd be the first to unbutton his jeans, she's still rather peeved at him, what with the New York girl and all.

“Stiles,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

And because it's a dream, she listens to Derek instead of arguing with him.

She's (of course) alone the next morning. Coach has them all training for some marathon for off-season conditioning, so she pulls on some shorts and her running shoes and hightails it to the Beacon Hills Forest Preserve.

Scott and Jackson are at the front of the group, hilariously trying to one-up each other. Stiles, too often used to running for her life, enjoys a much slower pace. Danny's keeping pace with her because apparently he's also of the opinion that people do not have to kill themselves to keep up with dumbass best friends.

“So,” Danny says, “you and Lydia went to Beacon Heights yesterday.”

They may be running much more slowly than Jackson and Scott, but Stiles doesn't really feel like wasting precious breath on conversations. “Uh,” she grunts out on an exhale.

'Kevin's from Beacon Heights,” Danny continues, like he's sitting across from her at the lunch table and they're not eight miles into their ten mile run.

Stiles look at him, wondering who the _hell_ is Kevin when she remembers that Kevin is the name of the big, blond guy Danny calls a boyfriend. And yeah, Kevin does live in Beacon Heights. She's pretty sure he doesn't do sports, which saves him from being the Romeo to Danny's Juliet or vice versa. God help their love if Beacon Heights High ever gets a lacrosse team.

“Uh,” Stiles grunts again because she's pretty sure she knows where this is going but that doesn't mean she has to like it.

“Kevin works at the Dunkin Donuts across from Planned Parenthood,” Danny says. “And I don't want to be all up in Lydia's business, but Jackson's my _best friend_ and he deserves to _know_.” He glares at Stiles, like Stiles is personally responsible for turning Danny into some bros-before-hoes frat boy stereotype.

And yeah, so she and Danny will probably never be best friends, probably never even really _be_ friends since she shamelessly exploited their chem-lab partnership (in Danny's defense, Derek's abs are _epic_ ), but she feels for him. If their situations were reversed and Stiles suspected _Allison_ of hiding something of this magnitude from _Scott_ –

“Jeez,” she blurts, “we weren't there for _Lydia_.”

Danny's bug-eyed face is almost worth it.

She and Scott celebrate Scott's victory over Jackson at Starbucks. She orders the Strawberries and Crème Frappucino because it's blessedly devoid of caffeine. Plus calcium and fruit? _Totally_ good for babies. Or almost babies. Or whatever.

Of course, while she's waiting for her order, she nearly has a heart attack because Derek freakin' Hale is sitting at a table, an espresso at his elbow and the New York Times open before him. He's doing the crossword. In _pen_.

Stiles really has no words for the pretentiousness of it all. Also.

“Shouldn't you be in New York?” she asks, faux-casual because he is _totally_ in New York girl's bed right now because even with the time difference, New York girl would be a fool to kick him out anytime soon.

He doesn't bother looking up. “Yes but Scott can't be counted on to answer simple questions over the phone.”

Scott arrives and hands Stiles her drink. “Derek,” he says with a scowl. “I told you she was fine.”

Derek looks up, and his eyes are a deep, angry red. Both Stiles and Scott gulp. “Last time you said that, she was being held captive by a coven of witches,” he says, voice all deep and scratchy like it gets when he's playing _alpha_ wolf and she is _not_ getting wet between her thighs.

Okay, so that's a lie, but at least she's still all grotty with sweat so it's not so noticeable to werewolf senses. Or at least (hopefully) _beta_ werewolf senses.

Scott drops the glare first and takes a swig of coffee. “Anyway, it's not my fault Stiles lets her battery run down,” he mutters because Scott is a giant two-year old.

“Not that it hasn't been awesome being discussed like I'm not even here,” Stiles says, “but I'm going to go shower.” She turns on her heel, but the effect is kinda ruined because her sneakers squeak on the tiled floor.

The effect is _majorly_ ruined by Derek catching up to her at home and throwing her down on the bed.

“I could hear you breathing,” he says as he pulls down her shorts. “And then you hung up.” He inhales like her pussy smells like the best chocolate cake Stiles' mom ever made.

And yeah, that mental image really shouldn't make her any wetter.

“Sorry,” she manages to get out. She watches him palm himself through his jeans with one big hand. “Derek,” she whines.

“Jesus,” he says, looking down at her where she's all swollen and aching for him.

He pops the buttons on his fly and she sighs, looking at Derek's stupid dick and wanting it so bad.

Derek slides against her, cock catching slightly against her slit. “Yeah,” she says because at least sex-wise he's never let her down. “Missed this.”

It's gotta be wrong, wanting the guy that knocked you up when he doesn't know he knocked you up, but she loves losing herself in the feel of him screwing into her, like he wants to make himself a new little space inside her before he pops.

(Like he made himself a new little _life_ inside her when he last popped)

“Oh!” she cries, coming too soon, too fast at just the _idea_ , and it hurts so damn _good_.

Derek's face is all flushed, red as his cock was and it'd be funny if she didn't want him to finish in her so bad, pump his load all up and in her because what does it matter now when she's gonna have his –

“Baby,” she grits out, and while that's not the dumbest thing she's ever uttered in his presence it's also not the best, “Derek,” she amends.

“You smell so _ripe_ ,” he says, like admitting it is like admitting he's _wrong_ and that the Argents are _right_ , and Stiles shivers, and he grits, fisting at her hair, “How can you smell so ripe?”

He's all hot and bothered jerking against her, denim chafing, and she wants him forever between her thighs.

She's pretty sure she said that last part aloud, and he's howling like the wolf he is, creaming her and knotting up even though it's a new moon and he –

“Derek,” she says again, helpless, her palm pressed against his sweaty neck as he spends.

The weirdest part about sex with Derek is how _non_ -weird it always is when the sex is over.

Like now with Derek sleeping the sleep of the passed out because apparently even with espresso, werewolves are just as prone to sleeping after some trans-continental travel as regular old humans.

She goes about her usual post-run routine, showering and then starting a load of laundry. She adds in her running clothes, her dad's spare uniform, and Derek's Henley because it's probably the only wash its going to get for awhile.

Chores out of the way, she settles on the living room couch with _Ethan Frome_ because it's on her AP summer reading list and because it's August and she hasn't started her AP summer reading list.

Derek eventually comes down, running his hands through his hair like that's somehow going to make the cowlicks go away. It doesn't. Her heart swells at the sight of him, standing in her kitchen in just his jeans and making them both a late-breakfast-early-lunch of egg and pepper sandwiches.

"So," she says because it's been bugging her since he left, "This New York werewolf council -- what they leave Central Europe during the Prague Spring, too?"

"It's not a council," Derek says.

"Uh-huh," she says. She takes a big bite of sandwich. "You can tell me," she says, "It's like those Italian vampires in _Twilight_ , isn't it?"

Derek glares at her across the table.

She's strangely delighted. "Oh my god, it _is_. They probably hide around at the opera like in _Quantum of Solace_ and you don't know if you're really talking to them or somebody pretending to be them when you want something done."

"It's a group of werewolves," Derek says. "Not SPECTRE."

"Of course not," Stiles agrees. "It's probably more like the Bronze Age _Teen Titans_ , all dark and broody and secret double-crossing. Or maybe like the late 90s' run of the JLA."

Derek doesn't bother answering that, preferring to finish off his sandwich in neat, economical bites.

"Although that wouldn't really help with peaceful negotiations with the hunters -- at least tell me they have a watchtower? Maybe a giant building in the shape of a 'W' instead of a 'T'?"

Derek pushes his plate away. "Let it _go_ Stiles."

Yeah, she knew he'd let it out eventually if she kept needling him. "Let _what_ go?" she asks, all innocent and wide-eyed.

Derek takes her wide-eyes and raises her a stoic.

"You know I won't stop bugging you about this."

He sighs and does that thing where he cracks his neck. Which is gross and _not_ super-hot at _all_. Much, anyway.

"I want the Argents out of Beacon Hills," he says, as if daring her to be all horrified at his inhospitableness to hunters in general and the Argent family in particular.

This is...not a surprise.

Allison had, after all, told Stiles and Lydia (all hushed and blushing) of her aunt Kate's very special S&M theatre staring one Derek Hale.

"Um," she says, wondering how to phrase this delicately, "I thought your uncle Peter killing Allison's aunt Kate sort of fixed everything with Mr. Argent, well not _fixed_ fixed, but you know what I mean."

"It's not about me," he says. "It's not even really about the Argents."

Um...okay? And while she knew earth-logic was not the strong suit of either wolves _or_ hunters, she was hoping for a bit _more_ than that.

"They're going to start a school."

Stiles waits for more but that's apparently it, the big, anticlimactic revelation. What is this, the last season of _Buffy_?

"Like with crossbows and everything?" she asks because actually it'd be kinda _cool_ to be able to wield one like Allison. She could be like the girl version of Green Arrow. Hey, it could happen -- they let the stupid _Spoiler_ of all people be Robin for awhile. And what was wrong with Tim's relationship with Ariana _anyway_? Sure, she wasn't a superhero but she was a pretty kickass girlfriend, what with being kidnapped into a heroin ring and everything. Stiles could relate to that. Well, not the heroin ring part but the being kidnapped part.

Derek is giving her his patented "Stiles, you're a moron" look across the table. She wonders if that's a heritable trait and if their kid will give it to her when she's trying to potty-train it. And yeah, cutting off _that_ train of thought right now.

"Because nothing's better for made-wolves like Scott than some trigger happy zealots armed with wolfsbane infused bullets," Derek says, voice practically _dripping_ with disdain.

"And that's why you went to New York?"

Derek nods, muscle popping in his jaw. If he were any other person -- heck, if he were _Stiles_ \-- there would probably be ranting. But instead, there's just the clenched jaw. If Derek weren't a werewolf, he'd probably be subject to _severe_ TMJ later in life. And that's a heritable trait, too, she's pretty sure.

And oh man, she really _is_ keeping the baby, isn't she?

Speaking of which, she really, _really_ ought to tell him because it's the responsible thing to do and she's told _Danny_ of all people --

The dryer dings, and it's the perfect excuse to rush up from the table, ready to be the laundry folder to end all laundry folders. She leaves Derek to wash the plates: hey, he cooked. he can clean it up.

When he's done he retrieves his Henley from the clean pile and pulls it on, makes a pot of coffee and then complains that there's no milk. Stiles doesn't bother reminding him that if he had a house with a working fridge he wouldn't be stuck rummaging through other peoples' food (or lack thereof).

"You could make a 7-11 run," she suggests as she's ironing her dad's uniform shirt. "Get me some popsicles." Doing laundry is hot work, and popsicles sound nice right about now. The cheap kind that stain your fingers.

Derek snorts and settles down with his black coffee and opens up _Ethan Frome_ where she left off. Which is to say, the first page. Apparently, this is a "hang out with Stiles day."

She can't really blame him. Her house has central air.

She looks at him, reading Edith Wharton like it's not torture of the worst kind and thinks about that girl in New York and how they probably discussed _literature_ and last week's _This American Life_ and all sorts of hipster, _adult_ things.

She swallows.

"What?" Derek says, not looking up, because he's a freaky werewolf who can feel her eyes on him and hear her heart race, and _crap_ he'll probably be able to hear the _baby's_ heartbeat soon, and she's got to tell him.

"So, um, theoretically speaking are you childfree or would you like the pitter-patter of little feet sometime in the future? And by _future_ I mean eight-and-a-half months, give or take."

In the movies this is where the guy either spazzes out and/or declares his undying love for the chick and theoretical baby in question. Or if it's a particularly bad telenovela, it's where he reveals he's the evil twin of the actual love interest and/or the secret relative of the knocked-up girl.

And because Stiles has been cutting back on the Adderall, she has this weird mental image of Derek declaring that he _is_ actually Miguel, the child Stiles' mom had as a teen on a trip to Mexico who has come to Beacon Hills to --

"What?" Derek says, dropping the book and almost spilling his mug of coffee all over the couch. But of course, being Derek, he catches the mug and sets it on the end table.

"What?" Stiles asks back. Derek looks like...well, a Derek. Okay, so Stiles has never really been queen of the simile department. "I mean, yes, I am pregnant. With child. Bun in the oven. Expecting." And what was with that, anyway, like yeah, I'm expecting it's gonna be a baby, but it _could_ be a velociraptor?

"You're not giving birth to a velociraptor," Derek says, automatically, and _shit_ she obviously said that last bit out loud. He looks like saying this physically pains him.

"No," Stiles agrees. She gestures towards her stomach. "This is a velociraptor free zone."

And then there's this profoundly awkward silence. Derek's eyeing her like the predator he is, and she's wondering if maybe he _is_ going to kill her after all, just a year later than she first thought. Maybe he'll bury her in his backyard.

"Are you - " Derek begins, but he cuts himself off. "Jesus, Stiles."

She wants to make a joke about how no, she's really sure she's not having Jesus because the conception sure as hell wasn't immaculate, but then she gets sidetracked onto the idea that _Werewolf Jesus_ would kinda be an awesome band name.

And then she's hyperventilating in her living room, wondering if somehow Scott's asthma is contagious, with Derek's arms wrapped tight around her and his voice commanding her to just _breathe_.

And okay, so she's _obviously_ the guy in this scenario because she's the one spazzing out, and it's Derek - emotional range of a teaspoon Derek -- who is just holding her while she cries and wants her mom and wants everything to be all right for baby Jesus Stillinski.

"We are _not_ naming the baby Jesus," Derek tells her later, when she's drunk more than few glasses of water and is tucked in the bed Derek made (hospital corners) with her nice, clean sheets straight from the dryer. And crying apparently really tires her out because she wants to argue with him, make him see the absolute _rightness_ of Jesus Stillinski, but she drifts asleep instead as she matches her breaths to his.

Derek's newfound emotional depths last throughout the afternoon, leading to a 7-11 run in which he buys not one but _two_ boxes of rocket-pops. He stays until her dad's almost home for dinner, and even then she practically has to kick him out. She knows her dad's glock won't kill Derek, but she'd still rather avoid all that blood splatter in the house. Also, Derek continues to wear the shirts _after_ he's been stabbed, shot, and eviscerated in them, and really, morbid much?

“Tell me this is some horrible youthful experiment to turn Danny straight gone wrong,” her father begs. “Or at least let me tell me that you and Scott are the lone outlier to the Westermarck Effect. Tell me _anything_ but that you and Derek Hale have been having unprotected sex for the past year and a half.” Because, yeah, even if her father is still blissfully ignorant of all the things that go bump in Beacon Hills' night, Sheriff Stilinski did not get his badge out of a Cracker Jack box.

“He was exonerated,” she protests.

“He's still a person of interest,” her father says, head buried in his hands. “And now he's a statutory rapist.”

“Dad --”

“I kept on telling myself you just had a crush,” he continues. “And that he was smart enough to stay away from you. Because you're a seventeen year old kid. And he's a twenty-five year old man.”

“Dad – “

“And it's my fault for treating you like an adult all these years. And Jesus, Stiles,” he says, raising his head out of his hands to glare across the dinner table, “why the hell didn't you make him wear a condom? Have all my safe sex talks been ignored?”

“Um,” Stiles says because it's not so much ignored as not necessary until a certain coven forced her to drink a certain herbal tincture. But as her dad has had enough shocks for the evening she doesn't think this is the time to explain the wiccans.

“Did he tell you he couldn't feel it through the latex?”

“Wait. What. No,” Stiles says because there's fearing for Derek's life and figuring out how much she needs to make his bail and then there's her dad discussing the sensitivity (or lack thereof) of Derek's genitals. “I was on the pill. He's clean. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”

Thankfully, her dad looks as disgusted contemplating her sex life as Stiles feels about her dad contemplating her sex life.

“I need a drink,” her dad announces and if she weren't, y'know, pregnant, she'd ask if she could join him. Three generous fingers of scotch later, her father has vaguely warmed to the father of her child enough to ask questions. “Does he have any sort of steady income?”

“Um,” says Stiles.

“Does he ever shave?”

“Um,” says Stiles.

“What the hell do you even see in him?”

“He's got a big dick?”

“Oh god,” her father says fervently and pours himself more scotch.

Her father insists on seeing everything she got from Planned Parenthood, and soon the prenatal vitamins and all the pamphlets are laid out on the table like some cold case her dad can't stop obsessing over. One of them, with a picture of a young woman with a seriously awesome afro reads THINKING ABOUT PARENTING in big, bold letters. Inside, it discusses the joys of constipation, nausea, and possibly increased sexual libido.

Both Stiles and her father shudder. “Maybe I should discuss this with Mrs. McCall?” Stiles suggests, but her father shakes her head.

“No,” he says, looking at another pamphlet that reads TEENAGE PREGNANCY AND YOU. “Parental support is very important. And bonding. This is us. Bonding.”

But when the pamphlets get into sperm being able to live inside the body for six days and how it is possible, but less likely, for women to become pregnant through any kind of sex play in which semen, or ejaculate, comes in contact with the vulva (direct quote), her father admits defeat with a long gulp of scotch and is all too ready to agree to Stiles' suggestion that they see what's on tv.

She's almost asleep, curled up in her favorite afghan and watching one of those law and order lawyers with bad eighties hair make some speech about justice at a sentencing hearing when her dad says, “I think you should invite him to go out with us to O'Malley's tomorrow night. For steak.”

“What?” she says because that has to be an even worse idea than the bonding over PSA brochures. “Why?”

“Because I'm less likely to kill Hale if we're in public. And they make a mean rib-eye.”

O'Malley's may make a mean rib-eye, but it's their house fries that are really the eighth wonder of the world. Fried in duck fat, drizzled with truffle oil, and then dusted with parmesan, and Stiles' mouth is watering already. It may be not one of those trendy gastro-pubs like they have over in Beacon Heights, but old man O'Malley _knows_ house fries.

But for once it's not the fries and their effect on her dad's arteries that Stiles is worried about. “I'm not quite sure O'Malley's is the place,” she says. Which is the understatement of the century.

O'Malley's is not where you go for your first date. It's not even where you would go for prom. But it _is_ where your parents will take your visiting college boyfriend when they want to see how he behaves in public. It's where your dad takes you when you've passed your driver's license test, and you're grinning ear to ear, and Mrs. O'Malley gives you a big piece of her chocolate cake on the house. It's where you go when you've been married fifty years and you want the whole town to celebrate with you.

It's not a place to do a walk of shame with your baby daddy who may-or-may-not have fucked New York girl and/or been replaced by a pod person.

Her father just looks at her, drains his scotch, and goes to bed.

Stiles looks at the tv. “Well,” she say to it, “fuck.”

Apparently, Derek does not know he is being considered long-haul material by her dad and/or been replaced by a pod person because he is surprisingly amenable to the dinner-with-her-father-at-O'Malley's idea. Or perhaps Derek's years in New York have made him forget that O'Malley's is basically Beacon Hills' front porch. Or maybe he just likes the rib-eyes.

Also, Stiles may-or-may-not have left out the bit where her father would be there when she texted him.

Of course, because Derek is a creepy creeper who creeps he's back at her house by the time she gets out of the shower the next morning. He's made himself a little wolf nest among her sheets and comforter, and if she didn't value her life, she would snap a picture for future blackmail purposes.

As it is, Derek blinks sleepily up at her and says, “You smell clean.” And he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Early werewolf catches the girl before she showers,” she says, but she gets into bed with him regardless. “I refuse to be grotty all day on the off-chance you might show up just because it gives you a hard-on.”

He's still not all the way awake yet because instead of glowering at her, he just undoes the belt of her robe and nuzzles at the newly revealed hollow between her breasts, his stubble scratching in a way that is sure to leave marks. Not that she was going to wear a low-cut shirt out tonight but _still_. “Derek,” she complains, but he ignores her, instead mouthing his way down her front, and _oh_ \--

She's all clean _down there_ , too, and it seems to personally offend Derek if the way that he growls and sets his wet, perfect mouth against her is any indication. And okay, so maybe she grabs at his ridiculous hair and rides his face – just a _bit_ – to relieve the ache.

He pulls back eventually, mouth and chin soaked, and there's a hint of fang showing behind his reddened lips, and _yeah_ he's smelling her. And then his head's back between her legs, the flat of his tongue on her clit, and it's so good, she might go a little crazy, arching her hips and saying stupid things she doesn't mean or doesn't want to mean. She feels his strong hands on the back of her thighs, holding her to him, and then she's spasming all over his face, wet and loud and messy.

Derek's all blissed-out satisfaction when he finally pulls away from her, kneeling between her spread thighs and tugging on his cock. His gorgeous, gorgeous cock, all fat and swollen, and despite how hard she's just come, her sex flexes _tight_ , and she wants him inside.

“Derek,” she says again, reaching out for his dick, but he grabs at her wrist with his free hand, forcing it down to the bed. And then he's leaning over her, teeth bared in triumph and eyes red, as he spunks her stomach white.

She can't believe how selfish he is, wasting it like that, and she tells him so as he rubs the spill into her skin. He's all lax around her now, mouth sloppily kissing at her hair, and she hates him.

“A waste,” she repeats, rubbing herself on his firm thigh because clearly he is useless.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mumbles, “It's not like you haven't got a bellyful already.”

But he pulls himself back together and gives her two thick fingers for her to come like a geyser around, and she forgives him. Mostly.

After, they don't talk about the fact that she's become a come-hungry slut and that Derek basically did the sex-equivalent of raising a leg and peeing on her. Because why talk about your own issues when you can discuss something else?

“The Argents are back in town,” she says because it was all Scott could talk about on this morning's run.

“I know,” he says, face still buried in her hair. Then, “They've taken over my house.”

Oh. Well. That might explain the scent marking, but it sure as hell does not explain her behavior. “Technically, your house is condemned and belongs to the county.”

“I know,” he says again. He sounds resigned. “And they want the county to sell it to them for their school.”

And here she'd been trying to make him feel better about the fact they had no more right to the property than him.

"Oh,” she says and lets him hold her.

Since she and her dad are basically down to Lucky Charms, a paltry swig of almost-expired milk, and the rocket pops Derek bought yesterday, Stiles decides it's time for a grocery run. It's not like she or her father actually _cook_ , but it's always good to have some box-mix dinners in reserve. Also, bagged salads for when her dad needs a healthier side.

“You want to come?” she asks Derek who is once again camped out with _Ethan Frome_ and black coffee.

He gives her his _you're a moron_ look.

“Fine,” she says, “but you can't complain when I buy only tofu.”

“Fine,” he says and grabs his car keys.

Grocery shopping with Derek is always an Entebbe raid because Derek believes you get in, you get out, and you don't complain about what you didn't buy. Still, it's his gas, and he'll generally pay for the groceries, too, so Stiles feels the pros outweigh the cons. They usually go to the Beacon Height's Trader Joe's because there's less chance of Derek being recognized than at the Beacon Hill's Safeway. Beacon Height's also has a Kroger, but she's in love with the green Thai curry simmer sauce, and she's pretty sure Kroger would offend Derek's hipster sensibilities.

Apparently, Mrs. Argent is also part-hipster, or perhaps she is also a fan of the green Thai curry simmer sauce, but she's pushing her cart (stocked, Stiles sees enviously, with all those free-range meats Stiles can't afford, doesn't know how to cook, and doesn't want Derek to have to buy) towards the checkout when she spots the two of them arguing over organic (Derek) versus non-organic (Stiles) orange juice.

“Miss Stilinksi,” she says. She doesn't acknowledge Derek.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Argent,” Stiles says with her most winning smile. “Have a nice vacation?” Derek uses the distraction to plunk the organic orange juice into their cart.

Mrs. Argent purses her lips, and Stiles wonders if she eats lemons in spare time to practice. “Does your father know where you are?” She looks Derek up and down. “Or whom you're with?”

Besides the whole _want to kill her best friend thing_ , the thing she really can't stand about the Argents is their freakin' snobbery. Like just because they aren't shape-shifters, they're better than everyone else, even if their hobbies include vandalism, arson, and murder.

“He's got a general idea,” Stiles drawls because while her dad may have absolutely no clue what she's doing at this exact moment, he is expecting Derek at O'Malley's tonight. And Mrs. Argent isn't stupid enough to go running to the police about werewolves.

The lemon-eating expression stays on her face, and she doesn't seem inclined to move her cart.

“Well, say 'hi' to Allison for us,” Stiles says at last when it becomes apparent that Mrs. Argent is not moving on. She starts pushing her cart. “Tell her I can't wait to hear about your trip.”

And yeah, so it goes against every instinct she has to let Mrs. Argent be at her back, but she knows if she stops pushing the cart, she won't be able to start again. Derek's got a hand at the small of her back. And they're walking, they're walking.

She's not sure she breathes until they're in Derek's car, driving back to Beacon Hills. It's a sunny afternoon, and they're on the open road. They're nowhere near forests where SUVs full of psycho hunters could be lurking.

“Have you ever considered moving to Beacon Heights?” she asks. “I mean, I realize there's no forests or anything, but you lived in New York City for how long, and there aren't any forests there.”

Derek just looks at her.

“Or you can continue living in Beacon Hills,” she continues. “Because there's no place like home.”

And because there's no place like home, Mr. Argent meets them at Beacon Hills' city limits.

He's parked on the side of the road, leaning casually against his SUV of doom like he doesn't have a good half-dozen hunters in the back or a few of his many, many guns stashed somewhere about his person.

“Well,” Stiles drawls as they drive past. “Looks like the Argents really rolled out the welcome wagon for you.”

“They were hoping I'd stay in New York,” Derek says. He's white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Stiles considers this. “That would be best for them, PR-wise. I mean, it's not such a coup to have your school in prime-werewolf territory if some of those prime werewolves are still around. Kinda a black mark on their hunting ability even with their 'we hunt those who hunt us' motto.”

“I'm not leaving,” Derek says with that fierce intensity that always makes her chest ache.

They don't speak as they unload the groceries, and Derek leaves soon after to go do Derek-things. Like run shirtless in the forest or whatever.

“Six o'clock,” she reminds him.

She showers again because she may be forced to endure the hell that is dinner with her dad and Derek, but she is not doing it with come flaking off her boobs. Walking around Trader Joe's with it itching under her t-shirt is one thing. Sitting through a dinner – that's something else entirely.

Derek shows up outside of O'Malley's at quarter-to-six. She's waiting outside because she can only take so much of her dad sitting at O'Malley's tiny little three-stool bar and determinedly self-medicate his anger into alcohol-induced joviality.

Derek's wearing a blood-free shirt and has traded in his vans for his motorcycle boots. His hair is still pomped back with copious amounts of gel, but in Derek-world, he's actually dressed up. She appreciates it.

“Thanks for coming,” she says, and she really doesn't mean to use the same phrase and tone she did at her mom's wake; it just slips out.

She looks inside at her dad, drinking like he did when her mom died. And something twists up inside her. “Don't be an ass tonight,” she says to Derek as she opens the door. “Please.”

Mrs. O'Malley seats them immediately, saying their server will be along in a minute. She tries to leave before Stiles' dad can order another drink, but he does, and asks, in falsely hearty tones, if Derek wants anything from the bar.

Derek says, “No thank you,” and then before Stiles can kick his shin, adds, “sir.”

Her dad orders the rib-eye, and Stiles doesn't even try to suggest her dad gets the side steamed vegetables instead of the house fries. Even if it seems like his dinner is going to be mostly liquid.

But her dad doesn't touch his next shot when the server brings it and instead folds his hands on the table. He looks over at Derek. “I won't pretend I'm even remotely happy about this,” he says. “But since my happiness is not object of this dinner, let's move on. So tell me, Derek, how have you been occupying yourself since your arrest?”

Derek gives this sort-of-shrug. “I keep busy.”

“Small-talk is not going to work,” Stiles says. “So, Dad, Derek's into parkour, free-running, and the legitimacy of the Oxford comma. Derek, Dad likes the late 70s post-punk scene, cold cases, and Patagonia's sustainable business mode. Both of you are opposed to me naming the baby Jesus. Discuss.”

“Jesus is a terrible name for a baby,” her father says. “And I say that as someone who named you – “

“Hey, hey,” Stiles interrupts because there's no need to go _that_ far. Also, their salads have arrived, and she wants her dad to eat some of the healthy green stuff before he digs into the accompanying breadbasket.

Derek is looking down at his own salad like it holds the secrets of the universe, so she almost doesn't hear him as he mumbles, “I think Gemima's a nice name.”

“Are you _high_?” Stiles asks. Then, “Don't answer that. We're trying to establish you as temporarily unemployed. Not an unemployed, druggie loser.”

“It's the economy, Dad,” she continues when it's clear she's going to receive no help from Derek on the job front. “Terrible on new college grads.” Her dad winces, and she realizes she probably should not have brought up Derek's age.

“I have money,” Derek says. “For child support or whatever.”

Her dad slams back his shot and looks as if he'd like to order about a thousand more.

Thankfully for her dad's sobriety, their entrees arrive.

“I have a job,” Derek says, evidently deciding that uncomfortable conversation was better for digestion than the uncomfortable silence that had descended over the table.

And that's...news. “What?” she says because she's got the market cornered on all things Derek Hale, and if he's employed she _is_ Aunt Jemima.

“What?” her father echoes, and he looks like a man who has _found_ Jesus. Or at least a life preserver.

“I'm a copy-editor,” Derek says. “And I ghostwrite sometimes.”

The Literate Werewolf. It sounds like something Oscar Wilde would write. It still doesn't explain the obsession with Edith Wharton, though. Nothing can explain that.

“That's supposed to be lucrative,” Stiles' dad says, in that making small-talk kind of way, reaching for the breadbasket. Stiles is still so gobsmacked by the idea of _Derek employed_ that she lets her dad take a roll.

Derek shrugs. “It's not the great American novel,” he agrees, “but it pays the bills.”

Since Derek has no bills – other than gas and occasionally the Stilinski family groceries – that is clearly a lie.

“At least,” Derek continues, because clearly one revelation at this dinner is not enough for him, “That's what my agent says.”

And yes, apparently Derek has an _agent_. She learns over the course of her _very healthy_ chicken and broccoli that Derek is super talented or some shit because he had been in the Riggio Honors Program at the New School and had been thinking about applying there for his MFA when Laura had gone missing. But Laura's girlfriend (who had gone to Parson's which is why Derek even applied to the New School) knew someone who knew someone and got him this gig ghostwriting sports stars' memoirs. And then he started the copy-editing (and more ghostwriting) for sports stars' columns and interviews in fitness magazines.

Sweet. Baby. Jesus.

She's still in shock when she drives herself and her dad home. Still in shock when her dad presses a kiss to her forehead and stumbles off to bed. And still in shock when Derek shows up at her window.

“What the hell?” she hisses at him as she lets him in. “You don't even have the internet.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “That's what the library's for.” He doesn't say _dumbass_ , but she can hear it just the same.

She folds her arms across her chest.

“What?” Derek asks. He sounds defensive, and Stiles has no idea where he gets off. “I thought you wanted me to make nice to your dad.”

“I did,” she says. “I do.” She doesn't add _but I didn't want you to get his hopes up_ because that's just what Derek's done. She can already see her dad viewing Derek differently: as a potential son-in-law rather than arrestee. She doesn't want to see him disappointed, and that's _exactly_ what's going to happen.

“Then why are you angry?” Derek asks. “I did what you wanted.” If Stiles didn't know him better, she'd think Derek sounded, well, hurt.

She sighs and flops down on the bed. “I just...it's just a shock. That's all.”

Derek scowls. “Well, I'm sorry if it's gotten too real for you, Stiles,” he says as he goes back out the window. And, honestly, what does that even _mean_?


	2. Chapter 2

Derek only manages to stay away from her a day and a half after their not-fight, and they certainly don’t discuss it because discussing things and working out issues are characteristic of a Healthy Relationship.  And that is so not what they have going.

Stiles supposes there must be some wolfy instinct behind all his hovering.  She’s sort of glad that at least Derek seems to really care about the somewhat-baby, and by extension her health.

She’s sitting (okay sprawling) on the couch attempting to read _Ethan Frome_ while Derek reads _Mrs Dalloway_ (further proof of his insanity, but luckily that’s from last year) and absently rubs at her feet where she’s put them in his lap.  Something in her cringes at the picture they make, and how much her dad would get even more of the wrong impression about her and Derek if he walked in, but she’s enjoying the foot rub, so she doesn’t say anything.

She’s been on the same page in chapter two for about twenty minuets when she finally gives up and allows her mind to drift.  She’s charted it out and figured that she’s likely going to have the baby late-March or early-April, which will hopefully coincide with spring break, (and not with April fools day, dear God) so she won’t have to miss any school.

School. God she’s going to be even more outcast once her pregnancy becomes obvious and she gets dropped from the lacrosse team.

“Scott!” she suddenly shoots upright and Derek, because he is never startled even though she accidentally kicked _Mrs Dalloway_ out of his hands, just gives her another one of those you’re insane looks.

“I have to tell Scott.” Derek’s eyes do something complicated and she’s beginning to thing only werewolf strength can account for the many ways he can manipulate his eyebrows.  She can’t tell if he’s displeased or hesitant, so she barrels onward, “look Lydia already knows, and Danny has an inkling and Scott’s going to figure it out eventually, plus isn’t he like your pack or something now.”

At length he says, “okay,” so she takes her phone out and begins to text Scott asking when he’s free for more Call of Duty, when he says, “should I come with you?”

Stiles contemplates that for all of second before her mind supplies her with an image of Scott wolfing out and lunging at Derek, and says, “no I think I better handle this one alone.”

Since his book is on the floor now, Derek apparently decided that reading time is done and they make-out for a while before going upstairs because her dad would definitely shoot Derek if he caught them having sex on the couch.

He sits down on her bed and pulls her on top of him after they’ve managed to undress, and as much as Stiles loves the gratuitous amounts of oral he seems to enjoy giving her, she really needs him to fuck her right now.

Stiles must have accidentally said that out loud, because he growls and pulls her flush to his chest.  His dick rubs up against her slit for a few thrusts before he grabs her hips and lifts her up enough to slip inside.

“I love werewolf strrengtthhuuuh,” Stiles moans, as he pulls her down on his cock and he snorts back a laugh. She clenches around him and jerks her hips on top of his in retaliation, and he growls and begins to lift her and slam her back down on him while biting marks into her chest where the older ones have started to fade.

“Derek,” she gasps, seriously enjoying how he’s hammering into her g-spot.  She’s crazily close to orgasm, Stiles clenches around him and that just spikes the pleasure even higher.  When Stiles comes, it’s generally for a few seconds, but as Derek’s cock presses into her relentlessly again, she whites out.  Even when she thinks she’s coming back out of her bright, tight orgasm, Stiles still feels shocks of pleasure.  She’d wonder if this was a pregnancy thing if she wasn’t too busy having a continuous orgasm.

Derek groans, probably smelling her release, but he doesn’t stop or slow down so she just _keeps coming_. Stiles hasn’t had an orgasm for this long without the help of her vibrator. She doesn’t realize that she’s making whimpering little moans, the kind that are completely undignified and embarrassing, until he abandons where he’s been mouthing his favorite spot on her clavicle, to kiss her again.  It’s less of a kiss and more of him biting at her lips, but apparently that still does it for her.

Finally after she’s come through that first orgasm and had a smaller second one he stutters in his thrusts and she feels it inside her, and smiles where she’s panting into his shoulder, remembering the last time.

Stiles definitely can’t move right now, but Derek seems to understand this as he pulls out and helps her flop on to the bed, in a way that her head is sort of on a pillow. Derek ends up curling around her with his hand on her belly.

“You broke me,” Stiles mumbles sleepily, “I can’t move my legs.”  She’s just drifting off when she hears what sounds suspiciously like him whispering, “then you can’t run away,” into her shoulder but that particular hallucination isn’t enough to pull her from sleep.

~~~~~

When Stiles wakes up the sun is setting which means nothing because it’s august so it could be between seven and nine at night, but Derek is no longer there, so Stiles rolls out of bed and is glad he at least opened the window so the sex smell has somewhat dissipated.  She checks her phone before showering, and only then does she notice the blood under her fingernails from where she must have clawed into Derek’s back.

Stiles muzzily contemplates feeling bad about it, before remembering he’s probably already healed.  Unfortunately her chest has not healed at all, so Stiles is wearing a t-shirt for their run tomorrow instead of one of her far more weather-appropriate tank tops and decides to save all of her pity and guilt for herself.

~~~~~

Scott of course doesn’t answer the text until 11 pm (presumably when his Allison time has ended), which doesn’t wake her up ‘cause now she can’t sleep early like any sane person waking up at 5 am would after napping all afternoon.

 **Srslyscott:** tmrw? aftr mornin run?

 **theStiles:** after I shower after our mornin run yes

~~~~~

Scott does not take the news well.

Stiles is pretty much happy he doesn’t completely wolf out when she tells him. Scott still doesn’t seem pacified by her recount of how it was completely not Derek’s fault, and yes she was going to carry it to full term, and no she didn’t care about being the alpha’s baby momma, at least not about the werewolf part of it.

“I am gonna kick his ass,” he was slightly growling, but that was better than a full-on Thor table flip.

“Dude if you’re gonna blame anyone for this it should be the witches—but not really cause they didn’t really have any idea that this would happen or that I was sexually active,” and Stiles cringed because she really doesn’t talk to Scott about this.  Sure he told her about Allison sometimes, but mostly Scott viewed her as a sister, who had no sexual motivations of any kind.

Scott seemed to be thinking something similar, his nose crinkled in disgust, “Ugh I need brain bleach now, gross, why Derek, I mean he’s…” she’s not sure whether he’s gonna say old, grouchy, or creepy, “ _Derek_ ,”

…so pretty much all of the above.

“Look I know that Derek doesn’t have feelings for me or anything, and—“ woah wrong thing to say, Scott had started to rumble into a growl again, “and I've known that for months, and I’ve made my peace with it, but hopefully he’ll care about the baby.”

Scott looked like there were seventy things he wanted to say to that, but he wasn’t sure which to pick.  Stiles supposes she should have seen the hug coming, but it’s nice and she just sags into it.

“I’m gonna be an uncle,” Scott whispered into her hair, and she started laughing at that.  She couldn’t stop once she started and at some point the laughter became sobs.

Scott just held her tighter, until she stopped.  Stiles wanted to forgive him for all the times he didn’t answer the phone during an emergency, because even though he sometimes was a little blind with Allison, he was still awesome.

When she finally pulled out of the hug, he just said, “wanna play call of duty?”

Stiles definitely forgives him.

~~~~~

Stiles definitely does not forgive Scott.

Stiles just got out of the shower and was about to make a massive sandwich because running made her ravenous when the doorbell rang.

Allison was standing on her porch and the look on her face said this wasn’t a social visit.

It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since she told Scott.

Definitely not forgiving him ever.

“Can I come in?”  Allison said, and Stiles saw the resemblance to her father more than ever in that moment, that crazy way they could ask questions like a perfectly normal person and leave no room for you to say no.

“Sure, I was just going to make a sandwich,” she left the door open for Allison to follow her into the kitchen.  Stiles may have to talk to Allison about this, but she wasn’t gonna start the conversation, especially since she had no idea what Allison’s problem could possibly be. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m fine.”  Allison sat down at the kitchen table, with her hands on the table top.  ‘This is going to be dreadful,’ Stiles thinks to herself.

It’s silent for a while in the kitchen and there’s just the sounds of her getting out sandwich ingredients, lots because she may have lost her appetite from the look on Allison’s face, but she was gonna stall as long as she could.

“So you and Derek…” Allison starts awkwardly.

“What about me and Derek?”  Stiles asks with completely fake casualness.

“Scott told me you’re pregnant,” and wow, way to break the ice there Allison, Stiles wishes abstractly that she’d been eating her sandwich already so maybe she’d have choked on it and could die and avoid the conversation entirely.

“Yep, the witches gave me some St. John’s wart and now my eggo is preggo, why do you want dibs on godmother?  ‘Cause I think Lydia might have it since she went with me to Planned Parenthood and everything.” Ah word vomit, a classic defense.

Allison looked taken aback for a second but she schooled her features again.

“Actually I was wondering if you were sure about keeping it,” Allison said like that wasn’t completely rude and invasive.

“Um, not that it’s particularly your business what _I_ do with _my_ body, but yes I’m sure,” Stiles really did not like the direction this was going in, whatever that direction was.  There were alarm bells going off in her head blaring BAD ROAD! TURN BACK! BAD ROAD!—but then, she wasn’t the one driving this car.

“It’s just,” Allison seems to straighten herself and strengthen her resolve, “it seems awfully convenient.”

Stiles’s mouth is hanging open, she has actually been struck speechless.  Ladies and gentleman someone has finally shut Stiles up.

For about ten seconds.

“OH MY GOD, what part of unplanned teen pregnancy is ever convenient for anyone,” Stiles is full on shouting at Allison, one of her closest friends, and she seriously does not give a shit.

“Well I was discussing it with my parents…” Stiles splutters, “You were discussing my pregnancy with your parents?!” but Allison is just barreling on, “and they said that it would be impossible to have a hunter school in the same town as an alpha with a newborn baby, whether or not the baby is a werewolf,” and there’s a flash of horror in Stiles’s mind when she pictures her baby growing claws in the womb, but she quickly snaps out of that and files that away for later.

“Wait what, so you aren’t gonna build your school now—by the way, very classy using the burnt down house of an old werewolf family that were murdered in cold blood by your aunt as a hunter school, very nice.”  Stiles needed to get that gem out because that was so cruel, but maybe it wouldn’t happen now anyway.

“No we aren’t, unless Derek leaves with the baby after it’s born,” and Stiles feels sick at the idea, that Derek would just take the baby away (possibly after it clawed its way out of her vagina).  “Which my parents don’t think is likely since you live here.”

Stiles shakes her head and puts up a hand, “Okay so let me get this straight,” she takes a deep calming breath, she does not need a panic attack right now, “you and your parents think that Derek got me pregnant on purpose so your family wouldn’t open a hunters’ school in the spot where his entire family died.”

Allison gets a slightly guilty look in her eyes, “well I thought maybe Derek was always gonna settle down with you and have kids some day, but that he accelerated his plans a little, but Scott told me you and Derek weren’t like that,” and that right there is the final straw.  One too many knife-points to her chest.

“Get out.”

“Stiles come on, think about it, the timing—”

“Timing nothing, I’m not gonna lay out a list of reasons why that is so completely incorrect, cause _I shouldn’t have to_ , you can tell your parents to get their heads out of their asses and fuck right off.” And now Allison is starting to look angry. ‘Good,’ Stiles thinks to herself.

“I’m not saying for sure, just if you would consider it from our perspec—”

“NO.  You look at it from my perspective, I’m seventeen and pregnant and the father doesn’t love me and you guys are being completely self-centered.  Now. Get. Out. Of. My. House.” Stiles is panting with rage.

“Stiles, I think your feelings for Der—”

“OUT,” there is no way that sentence is going anywhere positive for Stiles, “or do I have to physically make you leave?”

Allison finally stands up and starts stalking out of the house, Stiles follows her to the door, but before she can slam it behind her, Allison turns around, looking more apologetic, “look I’m sorry that this happened to you, and I’m sorry for thinking this but do you really trust Derek?”

Stiles lets out a tight breath, “look I know he doesn’t—” she doesn’t know if she can say the l-word again, “he doesn’t care for me that way, but Derek isn’t like that.  He wouldn’t do that.  Not to me and not to anyone,” that’s probably not good enough for her parents, but if they can’t figure out that she got knocked up before she or Derek had an inkling of Allison’s parents’ plans for the hunting school, then they’re self-centered idiots, instead of just self-centered bigots.

She can’t resist one last cutting remark though, “if your parents can’t get off their high horse and see that, how are they ever going to be okay with you and Scott?”

Allison looks like she might cry, “I—”

“Bye, Allison.”  She manages to resist slamming the door, but mostly because Allison looked so heartbroken at that last comment.

~~~~~

Of course this would not be Stiles’s life if Derek weren’t in her room sitting on the very bed she wanted to throw herself onto.

Stiles freezes in the doorway, Derek isn’t looking at her, just staring at his hands in his lap, “so, I’m guessing you heard all of that—”

“You think I don’t love you.” Derek interrupts, and Stiles really wishes he didn’t want to talk about it when they’ve done a great job avoiding the subject of feelings for so long.

“I know you don’t—that’s what you got from that?  Not gonna touch the whole slew of horrible new lows the Argents thing you have sunk to?”

“You covered it pretty well down there,” he says standing up, but not walking toward her just yet, “do you love me Stiles?”

His face is completely unreadable but Stiles can barely focus on that, her chest is tightening and the next thing she knows her knees have given out, but he’s right there to catch her with his damn werewolf speed.

“Breathe Stiles, breathe,” and she hiccups out a laugh at that thinking about lemaze and she’d like to make a crack about premature labor, but she is still trying to get her chest to unlock.

After maybe ten minutes, she finally says, “how—how can you even ask me that?”

“I need you to answer me,” he says it so softly and she looks into his eyes and she’s never seen this look on his face, she can’t even describe the look in his eyes.

“You’re really gonna make me say it, tell you I love you, just to have you laugh in my face?”  Stiles is trying so hard not to cry, but dammit it’s just one thing after another today so moisture slips out of her eyes, and she can’t look at Derek right now.

Derek puts a hand on her cheek and gently urges her to look at him like they’re in some regency novel or something, and she sob-laughs again.  Stiles is totally blaming all of this crying on hormones, geez.

“The only reason I’d laugh at that is out of happiness.” And Stiles can’t understand, this whole conversation is incomprehensible to her.

“What?” she asks thickly.

“I love you Stiles, I—” he swallows thickly and Stiles has never seen him look so terrified, “you’re it for me.”  She pushes away a bit, not completely leaving his arms but getting a better look at his face.  It must be really convenient to be able to hear lies

“But what about the woman you were with in New York?” and wow, way to show your hand Stiles.

“What woman?”

“The woman you were out with, I heard her voice through the phone,” Stiles presses because this is not her life, she doesn’t get the Nicholas Sparks novel romance.

“the phone—you mean Nina?  She was Laura’s girlfriend,” now he just looks confused, “you thought I—with Nina?”

Stiles is beginning to worry about the intelligence of her baby if Derek is this thick.  “Derek you could have any girl you wanted, why the hell would I think you—”  


“You had a date to the Spring formal.”

“What? You mean Matt?” and Derek’s jaw muscle ticked at his name, “Matt thinks _I’m_ a lesbian, and I couldn’t have exactly brought you to the semi-formal, Allison set it up and Dad was so happy about me having a date and everything… you were jealous?”  There is no way she can’t make that a question.

“Werewolves are notoriously possessive, how would I not be when I thought we were together?”  Now he looks like he’s worried about her IQ.

“We never went on any dates!” Stiles squawked back.

“You’re underage in California and your Dad is the sheriff!”

“You didn’t say anything!”

“Neither did you!”

“I didn’t want to freak you out with my feelings!”

“I didn’t want to scare you away!”

Stiles doesn’t know why they're shouting. She realizes how typical this is of them, even their confessions of love have devolved into a fight, and she bursts out laughing.

Derek’s has a completely bemused expression on his face so she just launches herself at him in a tight hug that actually catches him by surprise because he falls back so they’re lying on her bedroom floor, once she’s finally stopped laughing she realizes his hand is tracing through her short hair.

Stiles smiles into his shirt, she didn’t think she’d ever have him this way.

“Do you think our obliviousness is a heritable trait?”


End file.
